“Rules exist to teach restraint,” he says thoughtfully. “I have never been particularly skilled at restraint.”
“That must be inconvenient,” I say.
“Only for those who expect it.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me, and I can’t help but smile back.
We fall into step together, our horses moving easily side by side. For a moment, neither of us speaks. Then Tassilo clears his throat.
“I wish to apologize,” he says. “If I made you uncomfortable at the Placitum. My concern was…perhaps too plainly shown.”
I keep my eyes ahead.
“You worried for me.”
“Yes.” He hesitates. “I know my cousin’s temper. I could not—” He stops himself, then continues more carefully. “I could not reconcile it. That a woman such as you would want to spend her days with my cousin…”
I choose my words with care.
“I am capable of keeping myself happy and safe,” I say. The sentence sounds convincing, even to me, though I know its limits. “And I do not expect others to fight my battles.”
He nods, accepting the rebuke without offense.
“Still,” he says gently, “you may always count on me.”
I glance at him, a faint smile tugging at my mouth. “I shall remember that. One can never have too many counts in one’s favor.”
He laughs, surprised, and the sound eases something in my chest.
After a moment, I ask, “May I be impertinent?”
“I would be disappointed if you were not.”
“Your wife,” I say. “There are certain…rumors.”
He considers me, then inclines his head.
“I appreciate your directness. Yes—she is valued. We respect one another greatly. But our marriage was forged for politics, not passion. Tale as old as time…” His voice softens. “She misses her home terribly. So for now, we live apart. We care for each other…differently.”
I nod, absorbing this. “I wonder,” I say, almost to myself, “whether I know what love is at all.”
He answers without hesitation. “If you must wonder, then you have not known it. True love is unmistakable. It strikes you full in the face. It is all-consuming, undeniable. It leaves no room for doubt.”
“You seem to know a great deal about it.” I watch his face as he considers his answer.
He does not look at me at once. His gaze drifts ahead, to the path unfolding beneath our horses’ hooves, as though the words lie somewhere there.
“I know only that it is rarely what we are taught to expect,” he says at last. “We are told it arrives in one shape, follows one course, and ends in one acceptable place.” A faint smile touches his mouth. “Life is far more inventive than that.”
I remain silent, sensing that this is not a speech meant to beinterrupted.
“Love changes us,” he continues. “Not always loudly. Sometimes it works in small, quiet ways—teaching patience where there was none, courage where we thought ourselves lacking. It asks things of us we never anticipated, and gives us gifts we would not have chosen for ourselves.” He exhales softly. “Yet we are better for them.”
“And if it does not lead where it should?” I ask.
“Should is a dangerous word,” he replies with a chuckle. “Not every love is meant to end in marriage and children and open celebration. Some are not built for daylight.” He glances at me then, his expression open, unguarded. “That does not make them lesser.”
After a short pause, he adds, “Some love stories are made of stolen moments and closed doors. Of loyalty instead of possession. Of choosing one another again and again, even when the world offers no place for that choice.” His voice lowers. “They are no less true for their silence. Often, they are more precious for it.”
I feel something shift in my chest, though I cannot name it.
